


Tales from the Overlook

by hydesboy



Category: Doctor Sleep (2019), Doctor Sleep - Stephen King, The Shining (1980), The Shining - Stephen King
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-24
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:48:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 18,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22385149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hydesboy/pseuds/hydesboy
Summary: Because I've lost control of my life, this will have a collection of short One Shots based on various parts of various The Shining universes (Stephen King, Stanley Kubrick, the Miniseries, Doctor Sleep)Also, if there's any violence or undesirable matters I will include a warning in the notes at the beginning so it can be avoided if so desired
Comments: 2
Kudos: 14





	1. Thoughts Run WIld

“Wendy?” a voice called out, sounding a grotesque mockery of Jack’s own, “Danny?” This was punctuated with a solid thud as the roque mallet that he held – the mallet that held him right back – was swung into the wall with undeniably threatening intention. It was a solid sound, but it was not swung so terribly hard that the wall itself would suffer damage. It’d hardly look good for one with managerial intentions to be damaging the building itself as he was trying to go about his duties.  
“Where the hell are you?” the bellowing cry echoed about the winding hallways of the Overlook hotel, the voice cutting through the relative silence that had filled the building like an obtrusive presence.  
The world seemed to swirl and swell around him, taking on a surreal quality before his eyes. Eyes that were far too glassy to resemble the man they had once belonged to. It was all a little disorienting, though whether it was part of the influence that the hotel was having on him, or simply due to his suffering a rather painful head wound not all too long ago, he couldn’t say with any certainty.  
“Get out here and take your medicine, damn you!”  
It was not Jack Torrance. Not anymore at least, but the Jack-thing, the puppet that was so skilfully mimicking him sounded so dreadfully like him. The monster hiding behind the mask of his face doing too good of a job at pretending it was him.

Only a mere matter of hours ago she had been concerning herself with her nail, that had folded back and broken in a way that left a bleeding nub where there had previously been a nail. It was barely a concern in the long run, but she had quite liked the way her nails looked, and more importantly, they were long enough to cause at least a little harm if she had no option other than to use them to claw away at an attacker.  
But there was a benefit that came with such minor, unsubstantial little concerns such at that, and it was that it distracted her from the overarching danger they were in. Even little things that could be a distraction could serve as the only thing keeping her mind from getting so completely overwhelmed with despair.  
It was getting harder and harder for poor Wendy to fight and not succumb to the despair that was clawing away at her mind, whispering promised of relief from it all if she simply let it take her away with it.  
How did he get out?  
Where did Danny run off to?  
How the hell did he get out?  
If Jack even looks at their son she will kill him.

The knife sat heavily in her hand, awkward and heavy, and feeling as if it was growing heavier and heavier with each passing moment. She could hope that it was just a precaution, just a reassurance that meant she wasn’t powerless against whatever it was that plagued the hotel, plagued what had once been her husband but appeared more and more like a stranger to her, but the hope was just that. Hope.  
But while a person could hold onto hope they were still alive, for to give up on hope they were to give up on life.  
“Get out here, you damned worthless pups!”  
The bellowing voice, the origin sounding far too close for comfort given that she couldn’t see where precisely it was coming from – they did say the acoustics were strange there, strange and distorted sounds being the fate of any building designed with the intention of numerous occupants having this suddenly stripped away and left empty – caused her jump, the knife almost slipping from her grasp for a moment. She wanted to call herself silly for jumping at shadows, but the shadows themselves might as well have been out for their blood.

How did he get out? How did he get out? How did he get out? How did he get out? How did he getout? Howdidhegetout?Howdidhegetout?Howdidhegetout? How did he get out?  
The thoughts were thundering at such an intensity in his mother’s head, that Danny couldn’t differentiate his own thoughts from the frantic panic of hers.  
This is REDRUM, my dear Danny boy, REDRUM is here, it is now, it is coming.  
REDRUMMURDER  
He was a child, he was only five years old, and he was afraid for his life.  
Too afraid to make even the slightest noise, lest he let on where he was hiding, he bit down hard on his bottom lip, making it hard to cry out at every thwack of the mallet – it was a roque mallet, his daddy said he would show him how to play it, but Danny didn’t think this was how it was done – and also forced his lip to stop quivering, as if that were to fight back the tears that were bubbling down his face in a stream of misery that a child so young should never have to experience.  
Tony?  
Nothing.  
Tony?!  
Nothing.  
He didn’t want to be alone there, no sir, no ma’am, no how, but even Tony wouldn’t answer him.  
Wouldn’t? Couldn’t?  
Was Tony as afraid as he was and was hiding somewhere that he couldn’t be found, just as he was? In his childish understandings of the world, this seemed to be a perfectly rational explanation. Just as rational as the fact that a chef miles and miles away could hear his pleading for help and was, hopefully – oh god, please be coming to save them, Dick, please help! – going to swoop in like a superhero in the comics that he was aloud to read.  
Why was there music? The party never ends! There shouldn’t be music? The party never dies! There was no one here to be playing music? Come join the party, Danny!  
It was just like pictures in a book before he came, it was easy to avoid, to get away from before he came, and he was plonked right there in the middle of it all, unknowingly letting the long term residents of the hotel, and more importantly the hotel itself, feed off him from the moment he got there.  
But he knew know. He knew but it was too late for him to do anything about it.  
The wind howled outside, sounding as if there was a ferocious beast outside trying to get inside and join the ferocious beast inside. 

Still a way off, Dick Hallorann was stuck nodding his way through an exasperatingly tedious conversation about the gloves that he was borrowing. They were damn comfortable, and cosier than going without, but he didn’t need to hear the entire story of the gloves, from wool to his hands.  
If the danger that the child believed he was even half as bad as it seemed from the message that had hit him a good cluster of hours ago, then there was some real no good going on at the hotel. He had a feeling from the very second he saw the family, and as much as he wanted it to be a perfectly ordinary feeling than anyone might have, he had been more on edge since he left. Waiting anxiously for the tell-tale smell of oranges, but even when it hit he had still hoped that he was making mountains out of molehills. But the screaming of a child directly into his head was a mountain if ever there was once.  
But even after the hours spent travelling, which he had been afeard would die before it even began due to the catastrophic weather, he was still so very far away from his unhappy destination.  
Oh god, don’t let him be too late!  
He would never forgive himself if he came by only to find a bloodbath, all because a man with an evidently underworked mouth felt it important to know the importance of the gloves, and why it meant an awful lot to him if Dick could make sure they’d get back to him when he’s on the way back.  
He’s coming, Danny, he’ll be there before its too late, even if it killed him!


	2. Permit Them a Moment of Softness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Imagine if they experienced happiness. How unrealistic

It hadn't yet ticked over a month since the Torrance family had arrived at the Overlook Hotel, and things had gradually slipped into a routine. When they had arrived, there was a doubt that such a grandiose, extravagantly large building could have ever become homey, but for the daunting room count and labyrinthine corridors, it had managed to become more familiar. Perhaps it really was the start of something good.

At the very least, Jack had began writing again. 

So caught up in his wordsmithing, he had quite completely lost track of the time, but it wasn't just the time that he had lost, but at that moment even the world itself had fallen away, replaced by the world being formed with each click of the typewriter.   
Why must it be worlds between the heres and the theres? He knew precisely where he wanted to take the play, and knew the stepping stones to get there, but the words it look to bridge the gap seemed to be waiting just out of reach at that moment, no matter how he begged for them to come to him.   
So very engrossed in his writing, Jack didn't notice that he was no longer the only person in the room. In fact, despite the slight echo that the hallway had, he missed the sound of the door opening, and missed the following footsteps. Didn't notice that there was anyone but himself there until the person happened to attempt to hug him, which was not the easiest feat to achieve given the position he'd gotten into as he was typing away.   
Absentmindedly, he moved a hand up and away from the typewriter, only to gently lay it rest on one of the arms of the person. It was not a surprise that a glance revealed the person to be Wendy. In fact it'd be far more puzzling if it wasn't, given that there was only the three of them there, and the third was a child.  
There would be a time when these sorts of interruptions would spark nothing but anger in the man, an anger that was irrational and if he tried to think on the matter he couldn't have rightly explained why it would come at such a ferocity, but at that moment a sincere smile crossed his face as he gazed up at her, his attention leaving the pages, leaving the school teacher whose world he was creating, leaving the lines he was working on unfinished for the moment. 

The writing could come later, and he would finish what he was writing come hell or high water, but at that very moment he had far more important matters for him to attend to.

"I was gonna make Danny a snack, if you wanted me to bring you any? You've been holed up in here all by yourself for hours now," Wendy began, the second sentence taking on a jokingly scolding tone, "Its about time you gave yourself a break." 

"It's been hours now?" he asked in return, blinking a bit as he cast his attention over to the window. It was such a large thing, the window was, so it was a sure sign of his inattentiveness, for the sunlight that was pouring in through the glass had taken on a distinctly golden light, which was definitely not the same crisp afternoon light that it had been when he had settled down.  
That had to be a good sign, making a few hours' worth of progress was more than he'd managed in quite a while. This was more than enough to solidify the smile upon his lips.   
"I think that deserves a stretch of the ol' legs, at the very least."

Seeing a real, earnest smile upon her husband's face brought such a flooding sense of relief that Wendy was surprised it didn't knock her off her feet. She'd been worrying about him, worrying about herself, and worrying about them for so long that she'd almost forgotten how good it felt to have even a little of it released.  
"Maybe you can help me then, eh, hon?" 

"'s long as I don't get in the way." Jack joked, a very present twinkle in his eyes.

"If you don't," said she, "Then maybe we could take a walk after? The clouds are looking awful ominous so I don't think we'll get that much of a chance to see the grounds for all too much longer."

This was definitely no exaggeration or mere stretch of the imagination, for the clouds were rolling in and building a looming mass of grey-purple that could mean nothing but the snow that they had been forewarned would come, closing off their world to the little island that the hotel would then inevitably come. It would be as much marvellous as it would be terrifying. The isolation would be far more serious, as at that moment they could still take the trip into the nearest town, even if it was a trek and a half, but soon even that would no longer be a practical option.   
Best make the most of the opportunity they had before it was gone, swallowed up in a mountain of snow. 

"I'd like that, Wendy my love, I'd like that."


	3. A Mind's a Sorry Thing to Lose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bad habits bite no matter how much time passed

Well, there was no use beating around the bush with convenient excuses. He must have lost his mind. 

There was far too much sound for an empty hotel, and if his nose was not betraying him, far too much alcohol for a hotel that was supposedly dry. But there was just the right amount of sounds for a party that never - died - ended, and and more than enough booze to accomodate the swirling masked guests that flooded the empty hotel. 

But whether anything at all around him was real or not, the icy liquid burnt just the same, and oh god how he'd missed it. He wasn't breaking his word. Not really. Wendy had seen that it was void of alcohol - oh, and how she searched when she knew he'd be away in some other part of the hotel, and her result hadn't changed, no matter how many times she looked, even when she could pinpoint each of his old drinking habits minus the actual drinking - and they had not brought any with them, and so that means he didn't need to feel guilty about drinking now. Need to nor want to. After all, there technically wasn't a single drop of alcohol, actual real alcohol and not just cooking wine, for miles and miles from where he sat, the condensation from the glass chilling his fingertips just a little. 

Had he been thinking rationally, Jack would have realised that something was very, very wrong at play, but he had happily left behind his rationality when he walked into the Colorado Lounge and made himself at home.   
With foolish optimism, he brushed aside all the misgivings that he really ought to ponder upon in favour of another glass.   
And another after that.   
And another until he couldn't recall how many he had. 

This was what he deserved, he reasoned to himself as he downed the contents of his glass. It was only right that he was rewarded with at least a moment of peace in the insanity that his life had become. It was only fitting that this was his justification, for the release he so craved came through his willingness to delve right down deep into the bottomless well of madness.   
As long as there was more of the Good Stuff - Bad Stuff, if his son was consulted on the matter - at the bottom then there was nothing in the whole wide world that he would want more.  
After all, he deserved it, so why shouldn't he take what he deserved? Why should anything stop him from enjoying himself?

Somebody of managerial timber wouldn't let anything stand between them and what they so rightfully deserved. 

"Another glass, Mr. Torrance?" a voice asked, cutting through his fanciful thoughts. 

Perhaps, if he remembered them, he would write them down and use it in his book? Surely there would be a way to fit it in, if he tried to at least. 

"Keep 'em coming, Lloyd my man," Jack returned, a smile upon his face that didn't quite reach his eyes, "Keep 'em flowing 'til the taps are dry and the musicians sleep!"

"Very good, Mr. Torrance."

"Daddy's found the Bad Stuff." 

The words from the child's mouth had been enough to have her blood run cold right from the heart, the ice rushing through her veins bringing with it a heavy set dread that made it hard to remain upright.   
"Whaddya mean, doc? There isn't any between here and the town over?" Wendy queried, hoping that casualness in her voice didn't sound quite as fake as it did to her own ears.   
"There wasn't," Danny shrugged, "But now there is." 

Oh how she wanted to believe this to be nothing more than the fantastical imaginings of a child that had gone through something horrible, but she couldn't even convince herself of that, so how on earth was she supposed to reassure her child that all was well?   
Though she couldn't even begin to imagine the extent of it, she knew that Danny was a very special little boy who knew far more than it was possible for him to know, but even without this she knew he was right. 

"How 'bout you try practicing your letters for a bit, hey?" she proposed, a smile upon her face that she hoped would mask the worry she felt, "I just gotta go check on something for a moment, is that okay?"

Thank goodness the child had agreed. It wasn't that she doubted him, per say, but rather that she needed to see it for herself, to so willingly discard what little help she'd been clinging to like a lifeboat on a stormy sea. She needed to see, with her own eyes, that Jack had gone back to his old ways.

As much as she willed herself forward, she found it impossible to move with any significant pace, feeling rather like there was a boulder being dragged along behind her. A boulder that had some foul, toothy beast perched upon the very top, shouting down at her the anxieties that were racing to plague her mind with a disorienting swiftness, coming one after another in a way that meant she couldn't even reflect on one before it was jostled out of the way by another one, which was then gone as soon as it had come. 

The corridors had begun to feel familiar, but just then they seemed just as foreign as they had on the day they had arrived at the god forsaken hotel. 

Her breath seemed trapped away in her breast, coming only in short puffs that seemed more fitting for someone that had run a marathon than walked a corridor, but anxieties and fears had their way of playing with the body in ways that no one wanted.   
Daring to break the silence, she let out a soft sigh, running her fingers through her hair until she met a snag. Having to shake her hand out of her hair to free it was certainly not going to improve her mood, though she doubted very much would have been able to. The looming sense of dread hung too heavily over her to be so easily broken.

It felt wrong somehow to be spying upon her husband, feeling like it was admitting that she never trusted him, admitting that she had thought his words were worth less than the breath that he'd taken in say it.   
She'd only take a quick peek to put her mind to rest, and she'd hurry off back to where Danny was, laughing at herself for her silliness.   
A quick, disgustingly voyeuristic peek.

Attempting to still her nerves when she reached the grand doors to where she had little doubt her husband resided, she clenched her hands into fists so tight there were little moons on her palm.   
Just look through the window and be off with you, Wendy old girl. 

Well. There he was. Jack Torrance sat at the bar, nursing a glass of, if the bottle that had miraculously joined him was to be trusted, whiskey in one hand, the other gesticulating wildly as if in conversation with someone. While the doors and distance muffled him, he was speaking as if there was another in there with him, pausing to take a drink or listen to something that he must have thought he had heard despite being alone in there. 

Wendy turned away, unable to stomach the sight for a moment longer. It was no surprise to her, which only made it hurt more. She knew he would, somehow she knew he'd break his promise to her, but it still felt like a knife to the heart. The tears tumbling clumsily down her face were left unchecked and she hurried away.


	4. Good Company

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Technically this is a request off of Instagram but I also enjoy producing the soft content on occasion. The dialogue Jack is reading comes from Oscar Wilde's 'The Picture of Dorian Gray'

In the great big room, it was almost like the world around it had fallen away, reducing it down to nothing but a single room existing all by its lonesome in a sprawling, empty universe. Yet at that very moment there was nothing else in the whole wide world that Wendy could have wanted.  
The room was warm, despite the storm, heavily laden with swirling snow, raged outside in a fury that only nature could rage.  
But more importantly, as far as she was concerned, was that she was curled up all nice and comfy-cozy beside her husband on the couch, a blanket draped over the two of them. Danny was all tucked up in bed, fast asleep and hopefully dreaming of the happy sort of things that children dreamed of.

"'I believe that if one man were to live out his life fully and completely, were to give form to every feeling, expression to every thought, reality to every dream—I believe that the world would gain such a fresh impulse of joy that we would forget all the maladies of mediaevalism, and return to the Hellenic ideal—to something finer, richer than the Hellenic ideal, it may be. But the bravest man amongst us is afraid of himself. The mutilation of the savage has its tragic survival in the self-denial that mars our lives. We are punished for our refusals.'"  
Jack read aloud from the book that he rested in his lap, one hand instinctively waving about as he got more and more caught up in what he was reading. He had to raise his voice up louder than he necessarily wanted it to be in order to be properly heard over the roaring outside.

There was a steady smile upon Wendy's face as she listened on. Not even she could say whether she was more enjoying the story itself or if she was merely enjoying listening to Jack reading. Perhaps it was more a combination of the two, for it seemed to be perfectly normal for him to be reading to her.  
It had been so terribly long since he had read to her, and she had been missing it sorely, and so she had been overjoyed that he - he! She hadn't even had to ask! - had offered to read to her.

"'Every impulse that we strive to strangle broods in the mind and poisons us. The body sins once, and has done with its sin, for action is a mode of purification. Nothing remains then but the recollection of a pleasure, or the luxury of a regret. The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it. Resist it, and your soul grows sick with longing for the things it has forbidden to itself, with desire for what its monstrous laws have made monstrous and unlawful. It has been said that the great events of the world take place in the brain.'"  
It seemed the more he read, the more energetic he became. A clasp of his chest, a gasp or a sigh coming where he saw it fit. The words flowed naturally from his tongue, not only from his familiarity with the work - he had read the book more than once before he went about reading it to anyone at all - and had she pondered upon the nature of the words she would have been left with a lingering sense of unease, for the desire to give into the delicious temptations that the world had to offer came off a little too sincere in his reading.  
Not even he knew how deeply rooted the longing that was making itself known in his voice was. He liked to think that he was going an excellent job of ignoring it.

Mastery over one's desires, whether it was getting the better of it and ultimately being freed from its grasp, or yielding to the delights in a marvelously splendid way that would leave even the most sensible folk gasping for breath once they resurfaced from the pit of delicious debauchery, was one thing, but brushing them off to the side was another thing altogether. It was a dangerous thing. It left what could have been a simple want to grow and fester unchecked, leaving it to become something more. Something worse. Something dangerous.

But things were getting better, weren't they? He was reading to her, her head resting gently upon his shoulder, and they seemed, for this moment at least, genuinely at peace.

Oh, how she wished they could stay that way forever.

"'It is in the brain, and the brain only, that the great sins of the world take place also. You, Mr. Gray, you yourself, with your rose-red youth and your rose-white boyhood, you have had passions that have made you afraid, thoughts that have filled you with terror, day-dreams and sleeping dreams whose mere memory might stain your cheek with shame-'"  
There was something distinctly theatrical in his reading, the gestures came as though he was speaking to someone unseen, his expressions bringing another layer of sincerity to his mannerisms.  
It was truthfully quite fascinating to watch, his face would come alive as he read, his mannerisms would become not his own but that of the character. These were all little things he'd picked up from when he was writing, bringing himself into the mindset of the characters so that they would seem truly real when he brought them to life upon the pages. Well, he hoped this was the case as least.

Before she could catch herself, Wendy muttered aloud, "What a wicked man!" Though there was a touch of laughter in her voice. Realising she's spoken out loud, she let out a smaller, "Oh!" and went to cover her mouth.

This had amused the reader somewhat, his attention drifting away from the pages for a moment, planting a brief kiss upon her head before responding with, "A wicked man with wicked thoughts, can there be a better character to read?"


	5. Late Night Thoughts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wendy ponders her sorrows

Somebody had once told her, 'Wendy, always sleep next to your husband so if there's ever a time you need to kill him you can smother him with a pillow and pretend it was an accident.' but she'd always laughed it off as ridiculousness she'd never have to entertain.

But the advice was never completely gone from her mind.

As she lay there, listening to to her husband's breathing, steady in his sleep, she was aghast to find herself reflecting upon the now years old advice. It would be easy, almost too easy, all she'd have to do would be to turn over, and hold the pillow down over his face until he stopped squirming and all would be well. The thought of it sent a shudder of disgust right now her spine with such an intensity that it curled her fingers up into tight fists. 

Their marriage hadn't been the most happy one, Wendy couldn't suspend disbelief far enough to convince herself that it was, but it wasn't an unhappy either. Yet here she lay, tossing around the possibility of suffocating Jack to death in his sleep, their child doubtlessly still awake, cradling his poor newly broken arm as sorrows that children had no right suffering. At the thought of Danny's injury, 'an accident' she'd lied, her eyes felt wet before she had even realised she was crying. 

How long had she been crying? Had she ever stopped since she started? Would she ever stop again?

Oh! How she hated him! At that moment all the love that she held for the man had vanished, replaced with a hollow pit of anger and sorrow that threatened to engulf her, swallow her up until nothing remained. Yet she stayed. She didn't know why she stayed. If she was careful she could slip away into the night, just her son and herself. But where would she go? Her mother's, she could presume. Skulking back to her mother's house would be admitting everything that everything that the vile woman had thought about her, about them had been right, and she didn't think she could face that. Her friends might be able to offer a room for the short term, but she didn't want to burden them with her sorrows.  
She'll stay, she knew that would be the inevitable outcome. She'd stay this time, but if anything happened again she'd leave, leave and never look back. 

No more hospitals, no more lying for a man that at that moment she realised she didn't care whether he lived or died, and this was final. Never again, not if she didn't want to take a pillow and make herself a widow. 

With such horrid thoughts a play in her mind, she was sure that sleep would never come to her again, but gradually the thoughts began to fall away into a welcomed darkness that sleep brought. If anything, the nothingness of even the lightest of sleeps would still the busyness of her mind until she was forced back to the harsh reality. 

Unfortunately she was dragged back to the waking world far sooner than she'd like, as the haunting wails of the little boy being awoken by his pain filling the house and breaking her heart into little irreparable pieces.


	6. Fire burns as the snow flurries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Guess this is technically an alternative ending thing

It was a marvel, really, that things weren't worse than they were. Despite everything that had happened, the general consensus was still that they couldn't simply leave Jack in a building that was mere moments from going up in flames. It was a matter of good luck that the cook had heard him in time, and even better luck that he'd been able to render him unconscious - it wasn't a graceful battle, the madman was pelted with whatever the rescuer could find while trying to keep out of the reach of the mallet that was swung at him with murderous intent until something hit him right and sent him tumbling down to the ground - and the best of luck that they'd been able to get him outside before he stirred. With Wendy's bad back and ribs, Dick's wounded arm, and Danny's being a child, and an injured child at that, it was a team effort. 

Jack let out a groan as he was placed as gently onto the snow as he could be, but with a startling speed, consciousness took its hold on him again, hauling himself to his feet, a puppet hauled up by its strings, looking upon the others with a pure malice that should never be seen on a human face as he took a few staggering, uneven steps towards the others. Even disarmed he could still be deadly, if the bruises upon his wife's neck were anything to go by. But then his face changed, just as the boiler ignited a look of horror and sorrow took its place. He whirled around but his footing didn't keep, sending him back down to the ground with a howl, landing poorly on his back, or more specifically onto the knife lodged in there. But still he moved, clawing pathetically as if he were trying to drag himself back to the Overlook even as it started to burn. 

Wendy felt her heartstrings tug painfully when she saw her husband tumble down into a pitiful little heap on the ground, or perhaps it was simply just another ache of many that he'd brought upon her. Her head was spinning, the only thing that was keeping her from joining the weak soul on the snow was a strange sense of will that she couldn't quite explain even to herself. Of all the sounds that were assaulting her ears, Jack scrambling weakly in the direction as if there were still time to stop the inevitable destruction, his frantic muttering - 'nononono there's still time there's still time theresstill time theresstilltime nononono' - as he moved, the roaring of the wind, or the returning roar of the swiftly growing fire, she couldn't say which was frightening her the most. Perhaps it was the wicked combination that filled her with dread. 

Danny winced as his father let out a scream so agonised and sorrowful that it was sure to haunt him for years to come. He winced, yes, but nothing more, because he had to be strong because the adults didn't have to be the only one's to stay strong. There were tears in his eyes, running down his steps, and never seeming to stop but he refused to cry out. A burst of hot air billowed out of the building with such a force that he was almost pushed over, but he managed to catch himself in the nick of time, though this was no easy feat for one so young. He couldn't bear the sight of his father {Daddy? Can you hear me? Are you my daddy again or are you still the hotel?} throwing his hands over his head as he wailed. There was no pretty sights he could try and hide with, however, for his options were the almost darkness where the topiary prowled, the building that burnt so bright it hurt, or he'd have to face the hopelessness of the others. 

Dick felt a surprising burst of pity towards the man who had brought about such sorrow for his little family. He could barely feel his arm, which had been burning to no end mere moment ago, but this was not the relief he'd hoped it would be. Even if he wanted to, he couldn't blame the man who was writhing and spasming in the snow before them, for he knew the ways of the Overlook, he knew it better than he wanted to. He'd get them out of there, he'd get them help, even if he'd need to stretch the truth to the hospital staff. It wouldn't be a lie, he was called there because there was an attack, he just didn't need to say who it was that was doing the attacking. He just had to hope that there was still time for them to get to a hospital, but seeing the woman in such a state didn't fill him with confidence.

The Overlook bellowed its death throes, the sounds echoed by the man it had claimed for its puppet. The fire raced with a hunger to match its own, places of murder and bloodshed and pain purified by flame. In the dead of night it shone as if it were the middle of the day. Smoke billowed up and covered up the stars, the heavy acrid scent clinging to everything as if marking its doom to go up and meet a fiery end. It was a delicious ending for a place that was so horribly monstrous. The party was finally coming to an end, but the guests had no home to return to for the world had moved on since they walked the world of the living. Perhaps they were finally free, an exorcism by fire setting them free from the corruption of their soul, but it seemed more likely that they would be stuck, doomed to walk the ruins of the once grand building until the time comes that the last of the foundations came tumbling down and the Overlook returned to the earth that it inhabited.


	7. A Late Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Danny is plagued by the demons of his past

He was far too young to be drinking. Somewhere, deep down inside of him, Danny Torrance knew this and he hated it. Drinking reminded him of his father, and those memories simply spurred him to down another glass. And another. And another. But he knew that the horrors that haunted him from his childhood were not the true reason the sixteen year old had taken up drinking, and took it up so hard and fast. Sometimes he wished it was, it would have been an easier explanation if anyone had happened to ask. No one had asked. If his mother knew, and the moments of horrible sobriety let him know that she did, she kept her mouth shut. But he knew that she knew, because that's what he did. He knew. He saw. He was tormented. Oh, and how he hated it!  
Once his shine had been a gift, a delight that let him know in advance if they were going to do something fun, or where something missing was before it even was known to be missing, but unfortunately the childish naivety was snatched away before he had even reached his sixth birthday.

Sometimes, as the first sip of the night - or the day, who was he to care? - hit his throat, he couldn't help but wonder if his father had been hiding in the same way he was. Self-medicating from the horrors of the world. He was finding himself to be more and more like Jack as the years went by, even as he hated this, so it wasn't unreasonable for his father to have been more like him than he had thought.

He was dragged up from the blissful unconsciousness of sleep as a wave of nausea shook him.

On his pathetic pilgrimage to vomit his guts out into the toilet, his thoughts were preoccupied on not doubling over and emptying his stomach before he got there. His return to bed was delayed, however, as his mouth felt horribly dry. The first glass of water he downed did little to help, but the second even left him with a slightly clearer mind.  
Trudging back the way he came, his gaze drifted to an uncovered window.

"Oh fuck."

Behind him, the glass suggested even when a subtle glance over his shoulder suggested he was alone, were two little girls giggling to each other behind their hands.

The beginnings of a hangover were already taking him, it was late, and he just wanted to go to bed and not have to deal with ghosts that followed them - him - out of the Overlook. Hoping they hadn't caught onto him, he made his way back to bed and threw the covers up over his head in much the way he had when he was younger.

Danny couldn't say he was surprised that, even hidden in his completely penetrable fortress, he could hear the discordant chatter of the two girls. Occasionally even being assaulted by a scent of blood that the two carried.

He was five, stopped face to face with two children even when he knew he was the only child in the entire hotel. He'd entered their domain and they wanted to make him one of their own. Behind their gentle words and a generally pleasant demeanour there hung a heavy sense of wrongness that even at such a young age he could identify.

He was sixteen, hiding under his bedsheet like a child as two children he knew were long dead stood watching him pretending to be asleep. Long ago he'd entered their domain, and they weren't going to let him leave. Now he could feel nothing but a hunger, a sinister and unrelenting hunger in everything they did.

You're not here. You're not here. You're not here. You're not here. You're nothere. You're no there. Yourenothere. Yourenothereyourenothereyourenothereyourenotehere!

His silent pleas fell to no one but himself, and yet he was sure he was broadcasting it to the entire world.

A man a good ten miles away stirs in his sleep, an unseen monster pursuing him in his dreams as he wandered a maze. A child halfway across the country hesitates before she entered the bathroom, half expecting to come face to face with a grinning specter. A woman the next town over wakes with tears pouring down her face with no explanation. They all shook their head at their own silliness. They were too far away, too weak to be able to help him.

It's just like pictures in a storybook, they aren't real and when you don't want them anymore then you can just lock them away in a box way back in the depths of your mind.

There were embarrassing tears budding in the corners of his eyes, but he didn't care to wipe them away. Swallowing back a whimper as he drew the covers away from his face, he bit down on his bottom lip as hard as he could.

The girls were there, he knew they would be - they shouldn't be though. Isn't there a play ground they could be haunting or something? - but that didn't mean it wasn't disconcerting to see them standing there, hands interlaced with one another, staring at him with big, blank eyes. The same empty eyes that his father had as he brought the mallet down hard onto his own face, ripping away any likeness the hotel claimed of him. A smile hit both of their faces in precisely the same second, like a mirror reflecting the other onto themself, but there was no joy in it, but, oh, was there triumph.

As soon as they were there, they were gone. Snatched up and locked away in whatever purgatory came to them. There was no guilt that came with this, there never had been, only a relief that he couldn't express with anyone else.

They were gone, and he could sleep again. Danny couldn't help but thank himself for having a second glass of water, as he had just clear enough of a mind to rid himself of another two of the ghosts that haunted him.

If only they were all that easy to get rid of.


	8. What the whispers say

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is more a short musing than anything, but that's still valid maybe

It was said that there's three things that every single hotel in the world have. That was rats - a given when anywhere is so large and driven by life - and scandals - inevitable when somewhere draws multitudes of people to a place that is so very separate to their worlds - and, finally, ghosts - you can scrub and clean to your hearts content, but the ghosts linger long after the smell of disinfectant fades - and you can bet your watch and warrant on the fact that the Overlook Hotel was no different.

The ghosts and ghouls of the Overlook were no mere tricks of the shadow or an odd way a sound might carry in the later hours of the night. Oh no, they were as real as the guests, realer even for in death they were free of the weights and constraints that came with being among the living. Free to exist as they wish, no expectation to appear in the harsh light of society in a role they were forced into, they were happy. But of course they were, the Overlook treated its occupants well. The party never dies and the party-goers were free to enjoy their eternity, paying no mind to the madness of their purgatory.

The hauntings did not come to everyone in same way.

Phantom music floating up from the Colorado Lounge from a band that it was impossible to hear, conversations spoken at a volume to be heard over the music coming from a room that was, by all accounts, empty as a room could be. A strange dusting of confetti and streamers could be found lying about, though whether it appeared fresh or faded depended on who had the misfortune of stumbling upon it. As if thrown aside with disregard in a moment of good spirits, grandiose masquerade masks seemed to gaze out of unseeing eye holes.

For those who had the poor fortune to share her room, it was said that there was a woman, long dead by her own hand, that would wait to greet those who lay eyes on her as if they were her long gone lover who had fled her side at the first opportunity that was granted him. Mrs. Massey was a sad, lonely older woman and the hotel had been more than happy to take her loneliness and twist it into something vile, something malicious, and something terrifying. She had been easy prey, and even easier to be shaped into a terror fitting the party. But she would never join the party, for she was to always be waiting up in her room for her guest.

They said in the empty hallways, the echoing of a distant thud could be heard, sounding as if something hard had been swung into the walls with a great force. If one happened to look, however, there was never anything awry, nothing different than the last time they happened to pass the area. Yet if the person took the time to smell the air, they would be left with an odd surety that there was a smell of Jack Daniels filling the empty space. The thundering of the roque mallet was not always unaccompanied, for a bellowing of, "By god, you will take your medicine!" would follow, a viciousness coming from seemingly nowhere at all.

There was nothing reassuring, or even all that sane about hearing noises that weren't there. A not quite convincing barking from a man so very intoxicated and the laughter that this produced. A weeping coming seemingly always from around the corner, no matter how many corners were taken at any time. A whispering of children from places there wouldn't rightly be children. Music, laughter, voiced and cheer all bubbling out of the darkness, even when a glance through the doors proved it to be empty, not a soul to be seen in the gloom.

How good do you think you are with remembering the little, finer details? The larger ones that you wouldn't think would need to be remembered? Would you be able to remember the specific layout of a building so very large and labyrinthine? Could you say with any certainty the positions the topiary animals were in? Surely you missed a turn and let yourself wander too far. Surely they were always posed like that, even if they were shaped like animals they were still bushes and bushes can't just move. A trick of the mind, of the memory, and nothing more.

Nothing more than the insanity that the hotel spreads finding home and setting root in the mind of one susceptible to its allure.


	9. Wandering the Halls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wendy is having a bad time as usual

Halloween's over, fellas, you can pack the decorations up now.

If things weren't so terribly bizarre, and bizarrely terrible, Wendy could have almost laughed at herself for that, for it seemed that a part of her had come to terms with the absolute absurdity of it all. She had to, really, otherwise she was quite sure she'd lose her mind, and at least one of them should keep their mind, she reckoned to no uncertain terms.

She could swear she saw one of the skeletons move out of the corner of her eye. It would be impossible, of course, because not only was it a skeleton and therefore lacking any muscles to be moving anything at all, and that it was, well, dead long enough for a good dusting of dirt and a sheet of spiderwebs to clothe the bear bones, she simply couldn't be looking at a skeleton because there was nothing at all there. Skeletons or otherwise.

Still, a shudder raced an icy path up and down her back, a chill that no amount of layers could chase away as it did not come from any sort of cold but rather from a complete and utter terror. Swallowing nervously, she hurried out of the lobby. Even if there really wasn't anything there, she couldn't stand being out in such a big empty place full of echoes.

The echoes were a killer.

Trying to listen out for even the slightest sounds, Wendy was sure she was going to manage to give herself one hell of a headache before the night was over. The fact it was a necessary precaution at all was, in her opinion, utter lunacy, but the alternative was to risk meeting the business end of the weapon that the madman that had once been her husband wielded. It was all too quiet for her liking, really. She couldn't hear where he was, and that was torturous enough on its own right. The man - not man! Not anymore! The thing! The thing pretending to be the man! - could be lurking around any corner, that damned roque mallet ready to do its deadly duty, or perhaps he - it - was hiding crouched behind any piece of furniture she neared, just out of sight. She almost wanted him to make a move, if not just to free her from the horrible uncertainty that came with not knowing if how many steps she could safely make.

It didn't feel right, sneaking about the big old hotel like a criminal. But sneak and creep she must do.

Crack.

Where did it come from? Was it the closest hall to where she stood? Was he about to pounce on her and finally do away with the silly woman who foolishly let herself love him?

Thump.

Oh god, she couldn't tell she couldn't tell where the hell we was. He was far too close, but that knowledge did nothing to help her. In fact, knowing he was nearby but still hidden away from sight managed to frazzle her frizzled nerves further. Every step forward that she made was like turning the crank on a Jack-In-A-Box, just waiting for the Jack to pop out.

Thwump.

Her step faltered. Oh no. It was so close but so far but so close! If only she could see him and put an end to this horrible game of hide and seek they were playing.

Thwack.

Oh god, where was he? Oh god, where was he? Oh god, where was he? Oh god, where was he? Oh god, wherewas he? Ohgod, where washe? Wherewherewherewherewhere? Ohgodwherewashe?Ohgodwherewashe?Ohgodwherewashe?Ohgodwherewashe?Ohgodwherewasit?Ohgodwherewasit? OH GOD WHERE WAS IT?

"Wendy?"

She was wanting to see him, wasn't she? Then why was it that her breath caught in her chest and her blood turned to ice. With a gasp, she whirled around, the hand that was not clutching a knife with a white knuckled grip flying to her chest as if trying to steady her breath.

By god, he looked horrible. His skin was sickly pale, hair unbrushed and stubble coming in, a soulless emptiness in his eyes robbing him of whatever made him himself, liquid - oh god! It's blood! He found Danny first and now he's dead! - drying against his red flannel. Oh! And the smell! Even from where he stood down the end of the hallway she could smell the sweat and the alcohol radiating off him in a foul aura that almost left her gagging. Once it would have, but for better or for worse she'd gotten used to the smell. For worse, definitely.

"Oh, Jack, I was looking for you." she exclaimed, cursing herself for the tremble in her voice. Silly silly woman, she chastised herself, she should have stayed up in their room where she'd have been at least a little safer behind a locked door or two. But no, she had to risk it and now she's staring down the metaphoric barrel of a shotgun.

"Well," said he, perfectly civil, stalking forward with a nonchalance that came from a surety that a predator has when its prey was cornered and there was all the time in the world, "You found me."

Her lip trembled, but she was managing to win the battle against the tears that were threatening to overflow at a moment's notice.

"Yes, I," her voice cracked pathetically, taking uncertain steps back and away from the beast before her.

"You found me," it repeated in a horribly accurate imitation of her husband's voice, "And what are you going to do now that you've found me? Nothing? Just like everything else you've ever done?"

"Jack," she mumbled out, his words hitting home with much the same force she was sure the mallet he was swinging about so casually in his hand would if it hit its mark, "You don't have to do this..."

"If it hasn't gotten into your thick head, my love," he began, tapping his temple far too hard, the pet name coming across more like he was spitting out a curse than something spoken with love, "I have my responsibilities to my employer, and like hell am I going to let you fuck that up like you've tried to do with every single damn thing I've tried to do before!"

This opened the floodgates. Hot tears ran a river down her cheeks all of a sudden, but she was too stunned to even think to wipe them away.


	10. Rush

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the snow makes haste difficult

The snowcat raced down the snow clogged roads with the same reckless abandonment as if it had its breaks cut by an impetuous adrenaline junkie with fire ants in their pants and a death wish in their soul.

The snow that flurried in the air with a certainty of eternity, robbing anyone who was foolish enough to go blunder about in the wintertime flurries, was bitter and cold. The man had hoped the chill would take some of the edge off the burns that was shooting hot flames of pain across his arm and up across his neck as if the fire had never been extinguished, but the cold air and splattering of snow felt more like tiny little blades against the open flesh. At least it took a bit of the edge off his certainly concussed head. He wished he could close the window, knowing that if the chill the cracked open window was getting to him, then it would be tenfold at least for his poorly passengers, but it seemed the windscreen was determined to fog up to no end without it.  
It'd be ironic to have them escape hell by the skin of their teeth only to go and meet their maker because the windscreen was so foggy he couldn't see the tree in the way. He could only hope that he was, in fact, still on the road, as they hardly had the time for a detour of the unintended variety.

As long as he could get them to civilisation, to a hospital in relatively one piece, this meaning the less than reassuring no worse than they were, then Mr. Dick Hallorann, head chef at the formerly splendid famous Overlook Hotel, could say he did the duty he was called out for. But it seemed easier said than done, the poor woman was all sorts of broken in places that had no right being broken, and she was looking more like the ghostly hosts they were fleeing and that frightened him more than he could imagine.  
And the poor little boy that had called him up there...

Oh god, and what could he even say when he got them to help?

That he was psychically summoned by a kid he barely knew asked to be rescued from his father that had gone and got himself possessed by an entire hotel and it's merry band of ghouls? It'd be true, but also provide him a gold class, one way ticket to the finest looney bin this side of the whole goddamned world.  
That he'd been radioed by the family because there was an issue and he didn't get there in time? It'd be more believable, unless people started asking how he could have been contacted, and why there was such horribly human finger marks on their throats if he was claiming they were injured by being thrown out of a building as it went up in explosive flames.

He could have sworn his heart skipped a beat when Wendy let out a soft, pitiful sort of groan as she slipped in and out of consciousness. It had terrified him, and he had no shame to admit this. The possibility of her not returning to consciousness at all was all too real, and he would feel his failure to save her upon his own soul until the day he died. Worse still would be the fact that poor little Danny would be left an orphan after one tragic night, and that couldn't be good for anyone's heart, let alone for a child so young and so aware of the hardships that life had on offer.

The child in question was trying his hardest to stay away, but, shine or not, anyone could tell that he was nodding off against his mother's back. After his ordeal, it was almost certain that he would be plagued by nightmares for a good many years to come.

It felt like they'd been driving for an eternity and a day, the snow giving nothing away in the area of identifying where they were, but that was far from the worst that the night had held, even with its unrelenting intensity. He'd have loved to rest, but he had to press on, even as his head swam and his arm stung to all hell. The man almost missed the sheer adrenaline he'd been subjected to previously, but despite the fact he felt like he was crashing, he couldn't let himself with the risk of, well, actually crashing.

They drove through the silent snowfall, the world around them snatched away by the cold, each minute growing the distance between them and the nightmare they were escaping. It was freeing, in a way, as if they were leaving behind them a chapter of their life that had been so tinged with sorrow, leaving a brand new life ahead of them. But if it would have felt easier to leave it than to have it snatched away from them forcibly, well, they'd never have the chance to find out.

The world around them was silent, was calm, and stretched on forever.


	11. Over the Rails

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was my first attempt at a songfic so it's probably a tad clumsy. The song is "Over the Rails" by Circus Contraption.

[ "I'd give you the moon,  
I'd give you the stars above,  
I'd give you the sun and the sky." ]

The music might have been skipping, coming out as tinny and barely reaching the air itself, but it somehow managed to be the most beautiful music in the whole wide world. It wasn't clear where it was that it was spilling the cheerful tune out into the night, but for the two slightly squiffy - one more so than the other - newlyweds, it seemed irrelevant. Their stumbling down the street, a dance in its own right, shifted to a clumsy sort of waltz between the woman who's eyes shone with all the stars of the night sky above them and the man who had a smile with all the warmth of the summer evening.

[ "The bites in my eyes,  
For a kiss.  
I'd give you my mind,  
But it's already gone.  
I'd give you my heart,  
On a platter of food,  
In exchange for a kiss,  
'Cause I'm over the rails,  
For you.  
Yes, I'm over the rails,  
For you." ]

Rain drummed outside, a steady rhythm that showed little signs of stopping, the roof alive with dozens of fantastical creatures from a book read over the dim, each raindrop its own beast. The late afternoon sun shone cheerily through the mass of rain clouds, the downfall lit to shine as if it were something majestic and otherworldly. Yet the pair sat as dry as one could be, blankets tugged up around them to fight off the chill that was just creeping into the air. A woman, blissfully gazing up at her love with her head resting on his lap, a hand never far from her swelling belly as the life grew inside. A man, enthusiastically reading to his beloved as his words and feelings swelled into a marvelous show of love and theatricisms. Rain may try and dampen their joy, but both hoped it would be a losing battle.

[ "I'd pull out my hair,  
I'd quit drinking,  
I swear to god!  
I'd cut off my ear,  
If you wish it my dear,  
In exchange for a kiss." ]

The world itself seemed to have fallen to a deadly still, silent as if the elements themselves were listening. But a child's wails of pure agony were a sorry thing to hear, so loud even from the islands that split the house into its own worlds miles apart from each other. Eyes that once shone with starlight frozen over with a hatred that barely permitted tears to escape the chill that threatened to freeze her very heart. A mouth that once warmed the soul with a smile was still, silent and unable to utter even the slightest sound in the way of an apology, alcohol still burning his tongue and mind together as one.

[ "I'd sink you to sleep,  
For a peck on the cheek my love,  
I'd give you a rock,  
On a ring,  
In a box,  
In exchange for a kiss." ]

The wind whistled its possibilities of snow, but it felt as though it might have been a dozen years away, a dreadful stagnation shaping the world to no end. A guillotine held above a neck by a threadbare rope that each endless moment brought closer and closer to the inevitable disaster of an end that it promised with deadly certainty. A lady admiring the dent the ring left in her finger, wondering if it was really worth all the pain that it left her, as hollow as the dent the absence of the ring brought. A gentleman throwing his final card to the table in a last minute gamble that he could only hope would be a saving grace and not the ruin he feared he'd never outrun. It was a do or die for the squirming form on the chopping block, lest the end comes before a decision was made at all.

[ "'Cause I'm over the rails,  
For you.  
Yes, I'm over the rails,  
For you." ]

Like a wild beast, the wind roared and clawed at the building as if trying to force itself inside, the snow threatening to smother the world in its icy nothingness. What a wonderful world it would be if the weather could be considered the worst of the problems at hand, and yet it never was so kind as to allow this to be a reality. A wife, broken, bruised, and bleeding with hope snatched away from her with reckless abandonment, tears hot and messy pouring streams down her face as it was involuntarily jerked about by the business end of a weapon already sticky with her blood. A husband, or what was left of him as he was jerked about as an unhappy puppet, his death denied by the will of a hotel out of anything, a madman made of an almost decent fellow, the blade of a knife grinding in his back as the mallet was raised with foul and final intent.

"'Cause I'm over the rails for you," said it as means of explanation, echoing the words of a song they had once danced to in happier times, in times where the sun still shone on their long doomed marriage, "Yes, I'm over the rails for you." The voice cracking with emotion, as if what was left of Jack was crying out, but there was not enough of the man to stop the disaster from unfolding before his very eyes, by his own hands.

"Fuck..." she uttered aloud, something resigned in her tone. Resigned, but somehow relieved, for she was so very tired. Tired of struggling, tired of suffering, tired of pain, and tired of the walk of life she had so unknowingly danced as she internalised all the cold that was hidden by the moments of warmth she had so desperately craved. Craved like one craved a substance, craved like a fool that had thought it could ever be so.

As the roque mallet raised to commit, to strike the final killing blow, she simply shut her eyes, trying to recall the last moment they had been happy.  
A thud echoed the halls before a memory could surface.


	12. Sleep Does Not Come Easy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some post-book-canon content because these two are sad and definitely not getting away without some trauma

Dan had thought the irritating buzzing sound would have gone away when he shut the light off, plunging him into the odd half darkness that the world outside permitted him, and yet it carried on. He was too tired to think to search further for the source, too tired by half and so simply lay himself down with a hope that it would fade into a background noise.  
The moment his body hit the mattress he felt a dozen tonnes heavier, exhaustion trying its darnedest to drag him down, even as his mind fought against this brief blissful escape, wholly independent of his own want - need - for even the shortest scraps of sleep that he could scrape up whenever he could. It was quite annoying, really, even if he had long since become acquainted with the unfortunate prospect of a sleepless night.  
He couldn't rightly say what was worse, the dreams or the waking world.

From where he lay, he found himself staring up at the ceiling as if he were trying to find something hidden up there, and if he wasn't careful he might even look hard enough that he could swear he would begin to see faces were faces hadn't been previously. Whether this was simply an unfortunate byproduct of being beyond overtired or because his shine had begun to pick something up, he wasn't sure he wanted to know either way.

< Uncle Dan? >

The man jolted up into a sitting position as fast as any human could move. His aches and pains and concerns were put aside, an issue he could deal with at a later time when he had less important matters at hand that he needed to worry himself about. A glance at the clock revealed it to be precisely three thirty seven in the morning, a time that neither of them should have been awake for.

[ Abra? Shouldn't you be sleeping? You have school in the morning. ]

He was hoping that there was nothing wrong, that his niece had simply woken up and was finding it as hard as he was to slip into sleep, and had wanted to fill the time. He could hope, a man could only hope, for a man without hope was a man with one foot in the grave and the other teetering dangerously close to sending him down into the waiting death.

< She's really dead, isn't she? >

Even if he couldn't see her, Dan knew the girl - a child who had been forced to witness far too many horrors for one so young - was crying, and was sure that if he were to bring his hand to his face there would be tears, her tears, beginning to form in the corners of his eyes.

[ They're all dead, you're safe now Abra. ]

Oh lord, he hoped this was true, he hoped it was all over and the danger was left in the past where it should never have had to be at all. There was, however, an unfortunate lingering doubt that dared to make itself at home right there in the very back of his mind, too stubborn to be shaken away and sent chasing its tail, and he had tried this over and over again. He wanted to convince himself of this so much it was almost maddening.

< We killed them all, didn't we? >

He almost missed this, a whisper of a thought that slipped by just audible enough to make itself known. There was a guilt in this, he could hear it as plain as the day they were slowly drawing nearer to. It was only fair, he reasoned, as it was a bloody massacre by any definition and she really should not have had to witness such a thing. Not now, not ever.

[ We had to, Abra. We had to otherwise they'd kill you and just keep killing every kid that they came by. We did a good thing, we saved a whole lot of people and they don't even know it. ]

Following this, there was a silence so long he had almost began to think she had nodded off. Almost, he could still feel that they were linked, somewhere deep in his mind somewhere he hadn't let himself understand when he had the opportunity to. But there were better times to be kicking himself for not letting himself learn enough when he had the opportunity to.

< Hey, Uncle Dan? >

Her response finally came, after what could have been an eternity and a day, or nothing more than a mere matter of heartbeats that had slipped by in the time it took for thoughts to process.

[ Yes, Abra? ]

< Could you maybe come by tomorrow? >

He had admittedly been expecting this to be asked right from the first moment she had chosen to get in touch with him that night. Dan had already half made his mind up about going to visit when he had the chance to anyway, or at least he had been ever since he realised she was even half as distressed as she was.

< I mean, only if you have time and everything. It's just that mom was wanting too get to know her brother better and, you know... they don't really understand everything and it's hard to explain without making them worry even more about everything that had happened! They try to understand but unless they were like us then they can't know! >

Dan patiently waited as the child rambled, knowing the importance of letting one's emotions out, even if he was not the best at actually doing this himself. Understanding is one thing, and acting upon these understandings was another thing altogether. He appreciated her issue well enough, knowing it was exasperating when no one else knew what he was experiencing, but unlike him, she had people around her that did understand, and he would be damned if he would deny her of this when she had practically begged.

[ I'll be there by the time you get home from school. It'll give me a chance to talk to your mother without taking up too much of your time. Now, try and get some sleep now otherwise you'll be tired in class. ]

< Okay, Uncle Dan! I'll see you then! Night! >

[ Goodnight, Abra, sweet dreams. ]

Abra was gone by the time he had gotten the last word out. Whether she was going to heed his advice and go to sleep or would spend the night fretting was up to her. Although he might have been exhausted, he was glad he had been awake when he was needed.


	13. Waiting... Waiting...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> even through this suffocating decadent luxury, the woman was anxious

The room smelt of perfume, so heavy that it was frankly nauseating, the smell so thick that it would not be a stretch of the imagination to say it was visible in the air if one were to look hard enough about the space. It was an unfortunate fact that even once the room had been vacated, the scent of blackcurrants and roses - oddly reminiscent of a warm summer's day in a warm and cosy woodland cottage, a pie cooling happily on the windowsill as the children laughed and played in the grass, the sun dappling the world with pockets of gold - would not be fading any time soon, try as they may to chase it away. There weren't any rose petals scattered about, thank the lord, but there might as well have been given the overall presence of the room.

But, even through this suffocating decadent luxury, the woman was anxious, wringing her hands with such fervently worried actions it was a marvel she had not worn away her skin altogether. The ring upon her wedding finger still twinkled in the fading light of the window, pretty and definitely not being removed during the proceedings, for she had no shame in admitting she was a married woman even as she whiled away the hours in the company of men that were younger than her son was. She knew the decadent lifestyle that she lived was the awe of all her friends, less important, and more importantly less affluent than she was, as she took this as a badge of pride that she wore among the excess of grand garments that she could replace a dozen times over if the whim to do so ever took her, and would leave her with no guilt in the matter whatsoever.

The low chime of the clock rung out through the hotel. Loud and proud, as if shouting to all that may hear it 'I was here long before you took your first breath, and I will still be here long after you were reduced to naught but dust six feet buried! Heehee!'

Yet another hour passed by on the slow and eternal march towards oblivion, and yet there was silence beyond the intentionally unlocked door of room 217. Not a knock, not a call, absolutely nothing beyond the forever stretching silence. It was as if all sounds had been snatched away from the world, leaving an insufferable nothingness it its wake.

She was just being a silly, fretting old woman, Mrs. Lorraine Massey tried to reason with herself, but reason rarely held a place in times of stress. Had he been injured? Killed? Drawn away on some horrible business and was denied the chance to rush back to her welcoming side? Or was he too busy shagging one of the pretty little things they kept on as maids, the wandering eyes of youth having distracted him from the prize that so eagerly awaited him?

The man in question was already far away from the Overlook, having grown exceptionally fed up with being trotted around and expected to play the pitiful, uncomfortable and, worst of all embarrassing role of a pompous old woman's boytoy. He had far better things that he could be spending his hours doing aside from letting inane complements spill from his lips like the lies of Dolos. The moment he had managed to secure enough money, he was off, the nervous yet exciting intention of purchasing a lovely ring to propose to his beloved the only thought in his mind, making the acts he would kick himself for bearable. The two were happily wed and raised two lovely children, one boy and one girl, and lived a wonderfully happy life, however they were not the subject of this tale.

Her nerves were well and truly getting the better of her, but try as she did to chastise, to reassure, to distract herself she could not chase away the horrible feeling of nerves that felt more like what she would have had to imagine rat torture might feel like, all those frantic little hands tearing away at her stomach until she was lost to the world. She had to shake her head vigorously, her earrings tinkling and twinkling as she did so, to try and dismiss the morbid thoughts that dared assault her on an evening that was supposed to be of the enjoyable nature.  
The woman couldn't help but peer out into the hallway again, hoping if not expecting to see the familiar face she had been waiting for to turn the corner and come running to her. But, just as it had been each and every time she had looked out before this, there was nobody out there that she even remotely wanted to see.  
This did not mean there was nobody at all out there, and she had frightened a guest with her frantic glancing out into the hall, leaving the impression in their mind that there was some danger present, and had even gone so far as to call over a busboy to ask if he had seen the man she was so anxiously waiting for. It offered no relief to her already heightened nerves when he informed her that he had not seen anyone who fit that description in the last few hour, no ma'am, even if he'd do his darnedest to keep an eye out in case he did.

With her mind abuzz with thoughts she would much rather avoid thinking about, she decided that it would do her a world of good to pamper and treat herself, to hell with him! She deserved it, and she knew it. With a hum that was not as cheerful as the tune might have suggested, she set about running herself a bath, having decides that a nice soak in some warm, pleasant smelling water would chase away all the storm clouds that were trying to form in her mind.  
When the water was just right, she shed what little she had been wearing and vanished under the water, the thought this would be the last thing she ever did not quite there in her mind yet.


	14. Musings of Hatred

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some explorations of Jack's psyche before the story began

He hated the guilt that itched beneath his skin every time he lay eyes on the boy. His boy. His son! He hated it but that hatred only served to make it worse, the guilt growing like an out of control vibe crawling its way up the walls of a long abandoned building. He had never meant to hurt the wee tyke, his temper had simply gotten ahead of his reason, pushed along by the drink that blurred his mind to stillness. His damned temper. He always had a temper, he knew it even if he wanted nothing more in the whole damned world to forget, even for a mere moment. He would never live to hear the end of it, see the tail end of the fearful, suspicious glances that were not as hidden as they were intended to be. He hated the eyes that seemed to scrutinise his every move, but he did not hate the one of which they belonged. He didn't mean to hurt his son, but he did, and there was nothing he could do to take it back and yet he still cared more about how it reflected upon him and not those who suffered from his thoughtless actions. 

He hated the suspicion that lingered on his skin when his wife looked his way, lingering longer than it had any right to be. He hated the subtle ways she kept an eye on him, a subtle sniff of the air around him, scrutinising the competence of any movement he might be making at any given time. He knew it was a necessary precaution, a judgement he had deserved once and twice again. He knew, and hated, that he deserved all the doubt his word brought with it. His life less a drunkard's dream but more a nightmare he missed the last chance for escape years ago. He did not hate his wife, but he did hate what had become of them, a light once burning so bring dimming with each and every foolish decision, every drink that passes his lips that he promised he would not partake. He had never planned to drag their happy life to ruin, yet he did such a grand job of their destruction that it was a marvel that it came about so easily yet on accident. He was so busy wallowing in his own self pity that he was blind to the destruction his actions forced those he claimed to love about all else. 

He hated the way that his life had progressed, an innocent victim of the circumstances that were thrust upon him despite his best efforts against it. He was not a bad person, he knew this even if it was not the common consensus towards his character, an offence he had to take to heart more often than he would think any man was deserving. He did not hate himself, or at least he didn't think he did. His control over his life might have gone awry, but that did not mean he necessary had to dislike himself for it, or so he would reason in the late hours of the night when all the sounds in the world were muffled. He didn't think his hatred extended to the people in his life, but to the way they were stuck in a horribly stagnant hell of his own making. 

Perhaps his hatred did extend to himself.


	15. Never Truly Left

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adjusting is never easy

Everything seemed to ache in one way or another. Places she didn't even know could ache was aching something fierce, and aching in a way that she didn't realise things could even ache.

Recovery was not going to be a smooth process, and Wendy had never lied to herself to try and convince herself of the contrary. It was a marvel she was alive at all, and she knew this all too well. The pains that had managed to cling to her for months after screamed this to her at any time she was foolish enough to thing she could exert herself even a little more than she was doing.

But, even with her back in an uncomfortable brace, she survived and she was going to make the most of it.

Had she been alone in her recovery, she was sure it would have been more rocky, but she had her son Danny, a wee lad that had not yet reached his sixth birthday, that she had to care for. They weren't all alone in the world either, even with her husband dead - dead, she knew, long before the husk had perished - there was always the kindly Dick Hallorann, former chef of the Overlook, her rescuer - a knight in shining armour emerging from a blaze. While she knew she could not fully understand the connection between the man and her son, that was alright because they knew and they were better off for their knowing, and that was all that really mattered to her.

It felt as though she had only had her head off in the clouds for a matter of moments, her thoughts kind enough to not stray off into the darker corners that she could not free herself from. It had only been a matter of moments but that was all that was needed to fill the room with smoke. The acrid stinging sensation burnt her eyes, her nose, her throat. Or was it the panic that was burning her? Her heart raced, one hand clawing its way into her mop of short hair - cut short to try and leave behind her past in any way she could - as if she thought there might be relief hidden within her hair that she only needed to dig into the right place to free her from this.

Burning.

It was burning.

She was burning.

A voice echoed down the halls, calling for her demise with a bestial madness she though impossible for a human. The shattering of something far off. The shattering of the floor just inches from where she trembled already so broken. The shattering of her. Splintered bones piercing places that never ought to break, a scream as deaf to her own ears as her assailant. Everything hurt, everything burnt. The smoke. Was she on fire? She must have been, nothing could burn so hot without there being a fire. Ears ringing, but there was no time to answer them because she needed to get to safety, even as a welcome unconsciousness was dragging at her heels trying to pull her back to a comforting nowhere.

A choking sob forces her mind back to the little kitchen, and it took her a collection of frantic heartbeats to realise the pitiful sound had come from her. Poor Wendy was shaking so hard she was sure her legs would give up at any second, the bench offering a much needed relief to lean upon so she would not end up a sad heap on the floor. She wanted to scold herself for letting herself be dragged back to the hell she had nearly not escaped, yet it seemed the words, harsh or reassuring, could not come. It was as if her mind had been wiped completely blank with one quick motion.

As her breath steadied, her heart slowing back to a far less frantic pace, she could force a shaky, uncertain smile onto her face, trying to trick herself into thinking things were peachy keen and there was nothing wrong at all. Lies could only work so well, but at the very least things seemed to slow back down to how it should be, helped along by a few careful timed shakes of his head.

When things had come back to her, she caught sight of the cause of the smoke. Nothing more significant than the toaster. She had been making Danny and herself some breakfast, but it seemed that might have to be delayed a little longer than it should have been. He wouldn't complain, she knew, but it would have been more of a relief if he did, for she was sure she could count on her fingers how many times he had spoken since they left the hospital.  
Trying to shake away the guilt that wanted to creep down her back like water droplets, she busied herself with removing the now inedibly scorched bread, she replaced them with a fresh pair of slices, holding the offending two with the very tips of her fingers so that she wouldn't burn herself as she took them to the bin.

Wendy lingered at the bin a moment longer, glancing towards the living room where she had left Danny watching the morning cartoons, but he was not there. This did not worry her, per say, as there was plenty of reasons for a child to have wandered away, bored, trying to find something, and other childlike pursuits, and she new that he would come when he called her.  
She knew this, but even still she found herself calling out,  
"Danny?"

The scampering of little footsteps from another room was her response, a little face poking around and regarding her with a look of curiosity. He's always been on the more stern, sensible side but he had managed to look even more so than usual, as if he was working on a task of grave importance that he had been dragged away.

"It's just gonna be a little longer, alright, doc?"  
The positivity in her voice seemed tinny and false even to her own ears.


	16. Distraction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack tries to keep his mind busy (pre-Overlook)

Wendy had gone out for an extended lunch with other mothers that Jack could not rightly recall ever meeting, Danny at her side so that he might mingle with other children, not that the lad was the sort that mingled with others of his age, or really with anyone at all for that matter. But, without the others there in the house, Jack was free to write to his heart's content. Of course, as it so often was, as soon as the time to write was presented to him, all inspiration or abilities to write managed to up and vanish without even a 'Toodle pip and away we go!'

Good lord, he could do with a drink or two, or three, or four...

Without thinking, he wiped his lips with the back of his hand, a tic he had picked up in his heavier drinking days and had never been able to shake away since. Not that his drinking days had been that long shoved out of sight in some hidden room in his mind, somewhere that he could swear he could still hear scratching away at the door that existed if he were to extend the metaphor long enough to maintain the illusion. He could come up with half a dozen metaphors and a plethora of illusions when he pondered upon matters of unsubstantial nothings, yet it was as if he was to be eternally denied even the most simple coherent thought when his fingers brushed the keys of his typewriter.  
Oh, what a wicked, wicked world it was that a writer could not find the words to write!

Perhaps, or so Jack would reason when staring at a blank page grew too infuriating, if he were to distract himself for a moment or so, he might be able to coax the right words out from wheresoever it might be that the right words hid when they weren't willing to be accessible.

Hauling himself up and onto his feet, he staggered in a particularly ungraceful manner that was not from an excess of drink but rather because he had been sitting for a good handful of wasted hours with the absolute minimum of motion. Thankful that there was nobody but himself there to see his blundering about, but he still managed to feel silly. This did not shake away as easily as he hoped it might, though the human mind was not so effortlessly shaken away like a cheap etch-a-sketch. But, if he was busy feeling silly over stumbling about with a numbed foot, he would not have to think about the matters that were far more deserving of emotions that occupied the negative sphere.

Trying to shake of an insistent want to break a promise that he had made not even four months ago, Jack decided that the safest thing he could do was to busy his hands. Busy hands, busy mind. When Wendy had left, she had said she had no idea when she would be home - and that was completely valid of her, she had definitely not been having the best time as of late so she deserved a chance to relax and spend time with her friends without a care in the world for a couple of hours at the very least - and so, he was sure that the least he could do was to make something for dinner for when they were to eventually return.

This was a perfectly valiant ambition, as all ambitions were to those who had gotten the idea in their mind, however this was not an idea that was destined to end well for him. He could create the more simplistic sorts of meals, so he was not completely hopeless when it came to cooking, but he was rusty. Beyond rusty even, it had been a good few years since he had made anything more advanced than the absolute bare minimum.

How hard could it be? All he needed was to mix together the ingredients in a way that was at the very least palatable and wouldn't make anyone sick - he could recall a time he had fallen victim to a particularly bad case of food poisoning back when he was in college and was determined to avoid the cruel fate a second time as if his very life was depending on it - when the time to finally eat came about. It had not been all that long since Wendy had gone grocery shopping, so he was sure that there would be enough of a variety of things at his disposal that meant he could mix together some sort of concoction. It did not need to be some grand gourmet meal or anything, hell, he was a writer and not a chef, but it was the thought that counts and, at that moment at least, the effort the thought brought into being to put food into bellies.

For all his hopefulness, things did not go quite as well as he had thought it could have. Pasta boiled over and managed to spill out and onto the floor, and in the time it took to clean the pasta water from the floor, the vegetables managed to burn in the pot, only to set off the smoke alarm. This series of comedic but nonetheless unfortunate occurrences managed to take place over the short time it took to prep a basic spaghetti dish, but, well, he was a writer so he worked with words and not with foodstuffs.

For all his disasters of which the kitchen had managed to largely avoid too many telltale signs, the end result was something that he could say was decent enough to call a dinner. Sure, he had gone through far more vegetables than he would care to admit, but what was salvageable made a pretty decent meal underneath a layer of sauces.

The real victory, however, was that during his mighty ordeal, not once had Jack's thoughts drift off to the firewater he ordinarily craved so dearly.


	17. Freedom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They were finally able to leave the Overlook, or what was left of it as the fire still roared

Bitter, acrid smoke still stung on his tongue in a way that the little lad had not understood was ever possible. A lot had happened that he did not understand, having not yet reached his sixth birthday, and would not even want to begin to understand when he did, eventually reach an age that he might have to come to terms with all that took place in the burning building behind them. What Danny did know, however, was that he was tired - it was well past his bedtime! - and that he couldn't go to sleep yet, not until they were safe.  
Clinging as tightly to his mother's back as he could without hurting her any more than the night's proceedings had already done to the poor woman, he could hear her wheezy breath rattling in her chest like a sad little bird fighting its last fight for a freedom that it might not ever be able to win. Even if he did not have the Shine, he would have known she was in pain as she drifted in and out of consciousness. The poor child, already battling his own aches and pains - there is no way a child would be walking about without at least a little discomfort after being flung about like a ragdoll into a shelf - was feeling the phantom pains that radiated off the woman, leaving him all to aware of where each blow of the roque mallet had hit her or where merciless hands had clutched at her with vile intent, and those that their kind hero was trying his darndest to keep from the child, but the burns were not so easily contained when the man was concussed.

Even with each and every one of them bruised and battered in ways that nobody should have had to experience, they were finally free from the hell that had thrust upon them.

Danny had not given himself much time to think on the fact that his father had perished, his attention directed out of the snowcat and into the abstract shapes that the snow had made the once vibrant landscape, looking more like a mound of marshmallows than the scenic getaway that it was advertised as being. It wasn't as if Jack had died that night, no, the truth was that he had been dead for a long time even with the moments of lucidity that he was granted, and so in his childish trust in his parents - never shaken, even after the unfortunate incident that had left him in a cast - he held no ill will towards his father. It was the hotel that had done it to them, puppeting the man like a character in some macabre, sad puppet show that existed for the amusement of the unholy, unliving guests that had never left the Overlook after walking through the grand old doors.  
But where would the dead go once there was nothing left of the hotel but a pile of ash and cinders? Were they finally free to move onto whatever afterlife there was waiting for them, or were they still trapped, forced to wander the earth in chains of their own malicious making? Danny hoped for the former, as a child would hope for the happier alternative, but the part of him that just knew too much all the time meant that this hope was short lived and without enough foundations to cling to without it all crumbling down into some further sorrow that he would hope to leave behind him.  
Where would they go? Where did lost souls go when they were forever trapped walking the empty halls of purgatory without hope of finally entering the afterlife? Could the dead hope at all, or was that simply a state of being that was reserved solely for the living? And what of the living that all scraps of hope had been beaten and stolen from them by their life, did that make them no better than dead? Or were they more lost than even the dead?  
Oh, it was all too philosophical for little Danny Torrance to ponder, and his head hurt too much already. All those adult thoughts could wait until he was older, right now he just needed a nap and a quick once-over by a doctor so he could be patched up and able to go home.

"You alright, doc?" the chef asked, daring to let his attention drift from being entirely on driving the snowcat to glance back to the child. The man had risked his life to save them, and he didn't even know them that well, and this solidified in the child's mind the fact that there really was good people out there in the world.

"Mhm..." was all the child was able to muster in response, far too tired to take part in the mammoth task of forming coherent words, let alone sentences.

"We won't be too much longer," said the man, something of a promise in his tone, "Just hold tight now, can you do that? It'll only be for a little longer."

"Mhm..!"

The chef once more fell into quiet concentration so that he could navigate the snowy landscape. The last thing they needed was to get lost, or get bogged somewhere when it seemed that the woman, the poor unfortunate Wendy Torrance, was barely clinging to the mortal coil, and this grip was slipping with every second that ticked by. But, he would get her to the hospital as if his very life depended on it. They had gotten so far already, and once they got through Sidewinder - which he doubted very much would have the necessary medical center or equipment that they so required - they were practically home free.

The wind howled outside, offering little relief for their already raw nerves, but it sounded less bestial than when it bellowed and roared outside the hotel, and that made it easier to get lost in the sound and let the whole world simply fall away in the moments that it was really needed.


	18. Broken Sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack was woken up by the sound of a window shutter blowing in the wind
> 
> Also content warning for, like, unpleasant intrusive thoughts

The very first thought that entered Jack Torrance's head when he was forced from his welcomed sleep was a particular stream of profanities that would have likely caused even the most seasoned of sailors to blush and divert their eyes. The second was that he was sure that he had shut each and every window in the whole damned hotel himself, and that there was absolutely no reason for there to be a shutter banging in the wind so loudly that it would force him to wake up and comprehend the fact that he was definitely hearing the sound of an open window from the empty room beside them.  
He assumed that the latch must have been faulty and so it popped back open following a particularly ferocious gust of wind at some point during the night, or perhaps Danny - the damned worthless pup should know better than to break into the goddamed guest rooms, how many times does he have to tell the kid t take his damned medicine and keep out of his business? - had gone exploring and wanted to see the view from the room next to them, or perhaps Wendy - what did the nosy bitch want in there? Was she trying to find something else to blame on him so she could ruin him and steal his son from him again? Must feel pretty damned stupid when she didn't find anything to make excuses about! - had been trying to lend a hand and happened to bump the latch in the process. 

Sitting himself up with the intention of shutting the window again before crawling back to bed, his plans were cut short before he could even manage the first step. In an instant he was hit with a wave of very specific nausea that he had not felt in a good few months. Somehow he had managed to find himself hungover in a building that did not even have a single drop of - good, sweet medicine - alcohol anywhere at all.  
Sure, might have had a dream that night where he had been given all the drink he needed in the hotel's bar, a party of faceless - was there anything under the masks? Or was it all smooth like the surface of a mirror? - guests twirling about to their debaucherous hearts' content. Sure, he had a dream - was it a dream? Or was it the only real thing in the whole wide world? - but dreams are dreams and reality was reality, so there was no way he could get drunk on dreams.

Wiping his lips with the back of his hand, he begrudgingly hauled himself up to his feet, the cold of the world around him seeping through the carpet and providing no protection as he moved. He had years of practice acting sober and clear of mind. He had pulled up to work still drunk or with a raging hangover hammering in his skull and he was not discovered or suspected nearly as often as he had thought he might be.  
A pitiful whine escaped his lips, rolling uncomfortably over his still slightly numb lips, one hand distractedly finding itself intertwined in his hair, as if he was trying to lessen the pain in his head - why, Jacky-boy, it almost feels like you've been hit over the head with a roque mallet! Whattdya reckon that'd feel like? Wanna find out? Wanna see what it does, Jacky Jack? Wanna see their goddamned heads cracked open like an egg to see what it's like? - if he just tugged it out. This worked about as well as he had expected it would, this being not at all despite all hopes, and so he made a mental note to grab some medicine - oh, you'll give them their medicine, won't you? - if he didn't feel better by the time he got up proper later on.

Drifting like a man in a daze, he wandered out of the bedroom, letting his attention briefly drift to the room his son had claimed to make sure that he did not wake the boy - he could always make it so that the boy never woke again, but no, he was too much of a coward - as he trudged on past. The air was nippy in the hallway, the greater heating at that moment being too busy warming the other side of the hotel until he made his way down to the boiler later on, and he was left wishing that he had the good sense to grab his dressing gown from the hook before setting out, but he only ever did have the good sense to think of practical solutions well after it would have been any use to him.  
The door to the room he was going to was locked, but he wouldn't be surprised if it had just been relocked after whoever had been in there - oh and they thought he wouldn't find out! Trying to keep secrets! Trying to turn against him! Trying to destroy him! - had finished up what they were doing. That was easily rectified as he had the caretaker's master keys, and so he let himself in. For a moment he considered knocking, feeling oddly intrusive, but pushed this thought out of his mind with the claim that he was being ridiculous.

The window was shut.

Jack knew that the sound had come from that room, and yet there was nothing in the room that was capable of making sounds. The window was shut, the latch done up tight, and everything was as still and untouched as it was the day he had gone in to lock the windows himself.

Had he been in a more coherent frame of mind, the man would have thought to investigate, taken the time to ponder the bizarreness of the situation, and see if there was anywhere else he could look for explanation. Jack was, however, hungover and feeling particularly crusty, and so he simply decided that it was just a part of his dream that he tricked himself into thinking was real and turned and headed back to bed.


	19. You Are Free Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wendy has more than just a few things to think about as she regards the lifeless body of what had once been her husband

The bitter, all too harsh metallic scent that filled the air like a heavy growing fog was more than enough to make the woman’s nose wrinkle in disgust, the back of her throat growing hot as if her body, wholly independent of her will, was trying to decide if it was going to reject the contents of her belly. But there were far more pressing issues that she needed to attend to before she could selfishly think to herself in that moment.   
In a soft clatter, muffled largely by the carpeted floors, the kitchen knife slipped from the shaking, blood drenched fingers of none other than Wendy Torrance. The sound, no matter how quiet it had been, forced a strangled choke to escape her quivering lips. The sound was the best she could hope for, her throat bruised, the extent of which she had not dared to investigate, clinging to the last little scrap of obliviousness that was keeping her from slipping into the depth of madness that seemed to lurk within the very recesses of the Overlook.   
Oh dear god, whatever god there was that could see the god forsaken hotel ghost served as her private hell, what had she done?  
Oh god!  
Oh fuck!  
She had killed her husband!  
Taken the knife and didn’t even hesitate!  
No, no, the thing that was masquerading about the halls was not her husband - had it ever been? It did a damned good job of pretending - at all but something wearing his features like some sick Halloween mask, and nothing more! Jack had been trying to get better! He was trying so bloody hard to become the man he had promised he could become! He was so close! So close and now he was dead! Dead and away from everything he ever knew, lying there in a pool of his blood in the middle of nowhere on a fucking mountain! They should never have come.   
It had seemed like such a good idea at the time. A new start, a way to prove things could be better, a final attempt, it had been so many things and dubbed more titles than anything else out there! And for what? For it all to end like this? She could almost laugh, would have even, if her aching throat permitted. Each breath was more than enough to remind her to keep any bitter laughter bottled up for the time being   
But even if she tried, she couldn’t bottle up the tears that ran a hot river down her stinging cheeks. She didn’t want him dead. Sure, she may have pondered the possibility once or twice but had always been left with the conclusion that she preferred him alive than dead.   
He had tried to kill her. Tried to kill Danny. But he was already dead. Whatever it was that was puppetting him about like sick and twisted marionette had tried to kill them. It wasn’t her husband that lay before her on the floor, her swimming vision giving the illusion of his breath rising and falling as if he was still alive. That was him, and perhaps he was at rest for the first time in his entire life.   
“Jack?” she croaked out, sinking down to her knees, not caring that the blood would stain her pyjamas something fierce. She was still fond of the man. He might not be the same man that she had fallen in love with, given her love and life to, but she was still fond of him.   
Things were all so very still, stiller then the late nights where she stayed up until the wee hours of the morning, only to nod off on the couch before her husband staggered home, stiller than the nights he didn’t come home at all.   
“You are free now, you’re with me now, where you’ll always be...” Wendy ever so softly whispered, her voice cracking with both emotion and, well, pain that she had pushed to the back of her mind.   
With a gentle touch, she brushed the hair from his forehead, a smudge of his own blood following her fingertips. Had he always looked so tired? So broken? Or had the last little bit of whatever was holding the strawman together finally snapped when he first set foot in the hotel?  
It was the Hotel, this she knew deep in her heart, that had taken poor Jack down the dark and dangerous paths that he could not find his way back from. It was the Hotel, this she knew somewhere in her soul, that had ruined whatever was still salvable in the little family that she had so loved. It was the Hotel, this she held bitterly in the eternal foreground of her mind, that had ruined them so entirely.   
But she was not alone, not in the world, and not in the hotel.   
She could get by, she had to get by as there was no other option, until the warmer weather meant their freedom. She’d look after Danny. She’d look after herself. Things would be bad for a while but she’d get by. Pick up little scrappy pieces of what was once her life as they drifted by in the breeze and make something new out of it.  
Things didn’t have to be perfect, they just needed to get by so that she could give Danny as good of a life as she possibly could.   
As the man she had once trusted cooled horribly, she uttered to him silent promises that she would care for their child, let him grow to a better adult than either of them could have ever hoped to be. After all, was that not the goal of a parent, to have their child grow to become better than they were?  
The only sounds in the whole hotel was the roaring winds outside, but to the woman they truly did sound as if they were worlds upon worlds away, and for a fleeting moment she was all too aware that there were other worlds than hers.


End file.
